


The Adventure of the Full House

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Series: Solitary Runner/Full House/Dying Blogger Trilogy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of crime, sex, flat-hunting, detectives and their bloggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a little odd, John considered, talking about female genitalia with one Sherlock Holmes. But the man himself had brought up the topic, as his most recent case had been a smuggling ring utilizing breast implants. John had expressed the perfectly reasonable opinion that natural breasts, no matter how small, were preferable to artificial ones, no matter how cunningly applied, and Sherlock had declared the totality of mammary glands 'terrifying.'

"Terrifying?" John asked, grinning as he put his book aside and stood up to stretch his legs a bit. They're just... parts!"

" _I_ don't have them."

"I know," John replied, feeling cheeky. "I've looked." Not within the past few days, to be sure - Sherlock had buried himself in a case and had expressed no interest in anything that John considered the necessities of life - food, sleep, and - yes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh god, John, don't be vulgar." A similar word dance at the edge of his attention, annoyingly. Of course he didn't mind female genitalia. He just didn't _like_ them much. And he was fairly sure he hadn't used the word 'terrifying.'

"Sorry, am I being cocky?" John asked, airily.

The wry grin, the tilt of his chin; the way his stance made his jeans tighten here and fold interestingly there... Sherlock forced his attention away. "It's impossible to concentrate when you're being like that, you know."

John folded his arms. "I am a man of few talents, so I try to exercise the ones I do have."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "Do you know what will happen when I finish these case notes, John?"

"No, what?"

Meeting John's eyes, Sherlock leaned closer. "I am going to get _terribly_ bored."

John swallowed. Yes, it had only been three days, but that was a long enough time, surely... "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, lightly. Seeing John's mind work, running through possible scenarios - it was rather entertaining.

"How will you relieve your boredom?" John asked, trying to appear casually uninterested rather than substantially aroused and massively interested.

"I shall have to think of something." Was it entirely unintentional, the way John stood right in front of Sherlock, his crotch just at Sherlock's eye-level?

"Let me know if I can help."

"I will." Sherlock met John's eyes, which were deep blue and glittering, no doubt with ideas for later activities. "When I've finished." Something to look forward to, that.

John sighed. Sherlock could take minutes or days. "Take your time..." He settled back in his chair, trying to recover his interest in his book. But he could not help casting quick glances in Sherlock's direction to try to guess how close the man might be to finishing.

Sherlock sat back to watch John read, in no real hurry. The book's title was innocuous and general enough, but the subheading - _Living With Mental Illness_ \- made Sherlock smile wryly. Was John trying to better understand his own mental health or Sherlock's? Either way, it was... comforting. Pleasant, in a way.

After a few minutes, John found himself absorbed in his read again despite himself. The book was beautifully written, striking the perfect balance between raw data and engaging humanity.

Like any person, John moved and behaved subtly different when he thought himself to be unobserved. Sherlock often found himself nearly consumed by it; the simple act of watching the man. John was reading with interest, now, his mouth (lips a little dry, tongue darting out to wet them every so often) hanging just slightly open, one hand (nails cut too close, fingers surprisingly long for a man his size) idly tapping the arm of the chair. Easy to get lost, indeed, and the fact that he allowed himself to do so made Sherlock realize that he was, really, done with the notes. He closed the lid of his laptop with finality, making sure the noise was heard, and coughed.

The highly artificial cough startled John out of his immersion; he looked up, not quite back in the real world. "Huh?"

Sherlock ran his hands along the closed lid of the laptop, meaningfully. "Bored now."

John felt mild annoyance, being at Sherlock's beck, mixed with acute interest. He tried for coy. "Well, suppose I'm not?"

He wasn't, Sherlock knew, but it was possibly a fair question, even so. Sherlock slumped down in the couch, non-committally, shrugging. "That's your own lookout."

"I was just wondering 'what if,'" John replied, quickly, trying to maintain a plausibly innocent demeanor.

"Then I should have to make my own entertainment."

"I don't know if you're capable of that..."

"You may have a point..." The laptop felt nice and smooth under his fingertips. Sherlock kept feeling along the lid, noting the minute scratches.

"I'm not bad at it myself, actually." John smiled.

"So your talents are distraction and making your own entertainment?"

"I'm a simple man," John replied, pompously.

"Your words, not mine." While Sherlock enjoyed a little amicable bickering, he had other things on his mind right now. He got up, making his way around the table.

"I thought that was my appeal?"

"There are enough simple people in the world. You're... interesting."

"Interestingly simple, or simply interesting?" The latter most definitely applied to Sherlock, John decided, and he put his book aside. The dim light of the room deepened the shadows on Sherlock's face, making it appear even more angular; his face was a monotone construct of light and shadow, his eyes unexpectedly bright inside.

Halfway towards John, Sherlock stopped. It was an appealing image, John sitting there, _anticipating_. "Which do you think?"

"I wouldn't second-guess you."

"You will, one day," And Sherlock would welcome it. Welcomed it even now, as he moved closer, the image clear in his mind. John, taking control. Standing his ground, as he did even now, of course, but he would grow more assertive, in time. Sherlock swallowed, standing before John's chair.

"I doubt it," John replied, sliding down a little in his chair to keep Sherlock in his view as the man walked closer - almost towering, now.

Sherlock gave a quick laugh. "Well, you keep surprising me." He hunkered down, meeting John's eyes levelly. If he got down on his knees, he would be looking up, he considered, heart racing.

"Like I said, it's one of the few things I can do." John reached out to touch Sherlock's face - how could he not? His thumb grazed the high, sharp cheekbone, thrown into relief by the hollowness of the cheek below (he had to get that man to eat, somehow).

 _Yes_ , there it was; John's touch. Firm, determined, yet careful, like Sherlock might break if he used too much force. That was not an issue, of course. Sherlock pushed back against the caress, eagerly, laying a hand on John's knee. John pulled him closer, tighter, and Sherlock melted into him; kissing the underside of his chin. John was _solid_ , earthy, thrumming with potential force. Sherlock run a hand up John's thigh, feeling the resting muscle, remembering what it felt like in action; hard, shifting. His pulse rose.

This... this was utterly brilliant. This lean, muscular body in his arms, kisses just in that part of his chin that made him shiver. He held Sherlock tight, stroking his too-long and rather messy hair.

Sherlock had to get _closer_. He pressed himself between John's legs, kissing along his jaw line. That, too was solid; square and broad, everything Sherlock himself was not. The Holmes family tended to extremes; John, in so many ways, represented balance. A fact he might laugh at, should Sherlock ever mention it, so he didn't.

John opened up his legs to let Sherlock get closer, on his knees, then squeezed the man's hips between his legs, tightly. He bent his head down to press his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock leaned into the kiss hungrily, both of his hands on John's thighs. John didn't want this over in five minutes, though - which, at his level of current stimulation and prior anticipation, it might well do. He slid his tongue lazily into Sherlock's mouth, moving slowly and deliberately. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to be of the same mind; he sighed gently into John's mouth, grabbing his hips. John rubbed Sherlock's back with the same slow deliberation as his kisses. This was nice, yes - almost sensual.

Sherlock's sighs turned to whimpers; this was what he wanted, to follow John's lead, give in to his control. He had not stopped questioning and examining this urge and where it came from, but that was out of scientific curiosity, not need. Need lay in this - giving in to it.

John stood, trying to pull Sherlock with him - but the other man dislodged himself from the kiss, staying on his knees, his hands kneading John's hips. John looked down in surprise.

This was better; on his knees, Sherlock had an excellent view, and it placed him in rather a practical position. He looked up, questioning. Did John want this? He generally did, but getting his approval was part of the appeal. Sherlock played with the buckle of John's belt, holding his breath in anticipation.

John had to smile - he liked where this was going. He helped Sherlock undo his belt.

Sherlock exhaled sharply, starting on the fly once the belt was gone, giving it all his attention. John let him, stroking his hair. John _let_ him. Sherlock felt light-headed. One by one the buttons came open; there was no rushing this. When he was able, Sherlock pulled the fly open, and for a moment, just stared.

John sighed happily; he was not fully erect, but was getting there. No hurry, they had all night - and with any luck, they'd use it.

Sherlock reached to free the erection within, breathing hard. His mouth fell open. He had not done this before, not so... deliberately, and he found the effect it was having as intriguing as it was pleasurable.

John stroked Sherlock's hair gently. He loved to touch it - it was oddly coarse, and pleasing in its texture under his hand. He twisted his fingers in it, watching Sherlock touch him, breathing carefully.

There were so many sensations; heat, scent, not to mention the visual of John's cock firming even as Sherlock watched it, mouth gaping. He gripped it firmly and began to stroke in fascination; carefully, experimentally, licking the underside.

"Yes..." John breathed. It was still hard to believe - so to speak - that Sherlock was kneeling there with John's half-hard cock in his mouth. It was well on its way to being more than a half-hard.

Sherlock closed his eyes, sucking in just the very tip of the head, moaning, in as much as he could. The taste was about as he'd expected; just skin, really, with a little something added. Of course, it was all in the details.

John grinned at Sherlock's enthusiasm, pushing forward just a little.

The push was exactly what Sherlock needed. Yes; John should control it, control everything. Make Sherlock please him. He moaned deeper, sucking in what he could manage, but slowly; just beyond the head, at first.

John sighed with delight. This felt all too good, and he had to curb his desire to just shove it all in. Plenty of time... But whenever he moved slightly, John felt Sherlock trying to suck more in, with much enthusiasm, if not style or technique, and rather a lot of pleased sounds. Noting that, John tried to ease a little more into Sherlock's mouth. It was difficult to be easy or controlled, seeing his cock slipping between those expressive lips.

Sherlock took in as much as he could, closing his eyes and moaning deeper. This was bliss; no questions, no excess care taken, just the two of them, and pleasure. His own erection pressed urgently against his underwear and trousers, but it could wait.

John shivered, putting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders; he thrust a bit deeper, relishing the moist warmth of Sherlock's mouth. Though Sherlock choked a bit at first, that only seemed to egg him on further, tightening his grip on John's hips. This display of enthusiasm undid John entirely, and he thrust eagerly into Sherlock's mouth.

This was beyond good. Sherlock groaned, kneading John's hips, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Thought had all but stopped, an odd thing for him to welcome, but he did. It felt peaceful. Calm.

John pumped rapidly, enthusiastically, losing himself in the delicious sensation, his eyes half-closed, panting.

Sherlock kept up the pace as well as he could manage. It was all out of his hands, he was just along for the ride, being taken. He looked up at John, watching the man's face; such intense concentration. Sherlock was doing that, was making that happen. He felt dazed.

John came, biting his sleeve to quieten his yell - it wouldn't do to have Mrs. Hudson come running up to see what was the matter! He rode the waves of pleasure, twisting one hand in Sherlock's hair.

The blissful peace and calm was broken by a burst of warm, bitter fluid, forcing its way down his throat. Sherlock spluttered, making rather a mess of things as the ejaculate spilled out of his mouth. "God, that's vile," he muttered under his breath, or close equivalent of breath, at any rate. John did not reply, panting and shuddering as he recovered. When his breath returned somewhat, Sherlock traced a finger through the liquid still dripping from his mouth. He was used to the texture, of course, but mixed with saliva, it was still something of a different thing. Curious, that.

John finally caught his breath and came back into the present, noting Sherlock's distaste. "Erm, sorry about the taste," he said, feeling himself flush. "Comes with the territory..." he cringed at the inadvertent and quite terrible pun.

Sherlock wiped his mouth with back of his hand, still kneeling. "I'll get used to it, I suppose."

John tucked himself back in. "I wish I could flavor it, but it's come out a bit badly when I've tried," he joked.

Flavor it, indeed. Sherlock quirked a smile and started to get up.

John helped him rise to his feet; it was easier to pull him close that way, his warmth and vitality so pleasing. Sherlock took a second or two to find his balance, then pressed against him - there was no urgency despite his obvious erection. John kissed him deeply, rubbing the man's lean buttocks. There was nothing as good as this post-sex closeness. Well, perhaps post-sex closeness and pizza, but that was asking a little much.

The kiss reignited Sherlock; he returned it eagerly. It was a bit like food, really; you could forget about it for days on end, but once you got a taste, you couldn't stop until you were sated.

"Bed," John murmured between kisses. Nudity and lying on a bed would improve this situation greatly.

Sherlock murmured in agreement; trying to move and keep up the kiss at the same time.

John found it challenging to be sufficiently coordinated with Sherlock to move and kiss at the same time; sexual excitement and a height differential were conspiring against him, too, but he gave it a go. A bit of a stumbling, bumping-into-things, teeth-clashing go.

There was altogether too much furniture around; Sherlock bumped against it as he walked backwards. He knew the layout of the flat in his head, but he was not the only one in control, now, nor did he want to be. This rather silly dance was inefficient, though, so when John inadvertently backed them into a wall, Sherlock used the opportunity to pull him closer.

John appreciated the opportunity to kiss a bit more, and more deeply, sliding his tongue as far into Sherlock's mouth as it would go, tasting the man. This distracted him from his goal of the bed, but he couldn't bring himself to care at all.

The door to his bedroom was close enough for Sherlock to kick it open - he did so, pulling John towards and through it. John stumbled in with him, kissing as well as he could, given their haphazard bedwards movement, and soon, they were at their goal - bed. John atop. As it should be. Sherlock lay back, anticipating. Always the best bit, that.

This was good - a little leverage, a little space, and he really needed to see Sherlock's naked body. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock watched, open-mouthed. John made quick work of the shirt - but had to pause once it was off to kiss the stomach and nipples thus revealed. Warm, vital, tasty, irresistible.

Sherlock exhaled in a shiver, tilting his head back. No need to act; just react.

John moved to straddle Sherlock, one knee on each side; this position let him undo Sherlock's trousers while still lavishing attention on the man's torso. This was, he decided, brilliant.

Sherlock arched up to meet John's lips and tongue, closing his eyes briefly. Only briefly; He wanted to see, to observe.

John pulled Sherlock's trousers down, kicking them the rest of the way with his feet. What was it with this man's nipples? Compact, warm, just fantastic to lick and - yes - nibble on a little.

A strange sort of noise escaped Sherlock as he felt John's teeth on his nipples. Good _God_ that felt good! His eyes flew open with the strength of it. Nerve-endings, part of his brain supplied, but it seemed less important than the actual experience, right now.

If it was good for Sherlock, it was fantastic for both of them, so John kept at it as Sherlock's trousers went off the side of the bed.

His body, Sherlock found, reacted much without his conscious interference during sex. Take his hips now, making vague thrusting motions entirely of their own accord. His entire body, in fact, was writhing, slaved to the attention John was giving it. John, however, looked like there was nothing out of the ordinary about this at all. Sherlock couldn't stop staring.

John gave the nipples a few parting licks, then pulled Sherlock's pants off, leaving his erection free, resting on his stomach. So many things to lavish attention on...

Sherlock whimpered, looking down at John. Breathing was becoming difficult; was he in worse shape than he'd thought?

John leaned down and licked at Sherlock's erection. Oh, yes - this was good, so good. He had always loved giving oral sex, and just because it was a man's bits instead of a woman's changed this not one bit. So intimate, so good to give someone pleasure.

"Aaah..." The pleasure was almost painful in intensity. Sherlock whined through gritted teeth, clutching the mattress as though he might fall off it.

Slowly, carefully - _no need to rush, it's better if you don't_ \- John put his mouth over the erection, feeling the shape of it in his lips. Sherlock was clearly trying to control his breathing; his eyes open now, that expressive mouth clamped shut. John closed his mouth on Sherlock's erection, squeezing it with his lips, rubbing the head with his tongue. Yes - yes, this was simply _brilliant_.

The thing was to remember to breathe, Sherlock thought. He pressed his legs against John's sides and desperately looked at the ceiling. It was bland and uninteresting; a welcome lack of input.

John smiled internally at that - his mouth was otherwise occupied - and gently fondled Sherlock's testicles as he pulled his lips, tightly clamped, up and down the shaft.

Sherlock exhaled in a huff, rising up on his elbows to get a better view. Any pretense of control gone was gone; he was gasping, staring, utterly lost.

John slid his lips up and down with a deliberate, measured pace, stroking the balls carefully. He could feel Sherlock quivering in pleasure - so close, so intimate, it was almost his pleasure, as well.

"J...ohn..." Sherlock stuttered, gasping in breaths. He was close now, tethering on the edge.

Feeling the change, John sped up his pace, massaging Sherlock's testicles gently, lashing the erection with his tongue as he stroked it with his lips.

The orgasm left Sherlock blindsided; he rose up, mouth open in a silent exclamation; eyes wide. It was almost invasively intense; there had been such calm; such order... Not that he could bring himself to complain.

John coughed at the bitter fluid in his mouth; he swallowed it, then licked Sherlock's cock, the taste of skin washing away the taste of come. He looked up at Sherlock, grin spreading over his face at the utterly undone look on Sherlock's.

Sherlock watched, mesmerized. John was a category unto himself, in Sherlock's mind, but even for _him_ to have such access - to be allowed so close, made him feel raw. It was all still too new to tell if that was a good thing or not, so meanwhile, Sherlock reached out to stroke John's face with his fingertips, just watching.

The intensity of that look was not one your average human being could endure; John's eyes fell, and he pulled himself up to be more level with Sherlock.

There was nothing else for Sherlock to do than pull John close and kiss him, softly, now that he was in reach. It would not last, this closeness, but an embrace would keep it steady for a little while.

"Still bored?" John asked, softly.

Sherlock laughed. "What would you have done if I'd said 'yes'?"

"Worked at it a little more." John smiled wickedly. Sherlock's reply was a quick laugh and a squeeze of his shoulder, so John lay down next to him. It was little tight - this bed was not meant for more than one person - but he made do, putting an arm across the other man. It was rather nice, he decided.

Was this nice? It was, wasn't it? Sherlock put a hand on John's arm, and tried to smile. It was an expression he'd never really mastered, though other people seemed to hand them out so easily. It annoyed him. He ought, he felt, to try.

The smile was... well, Sherlock had a way of deliberately smiling that came out a little creepily. "It doesn't suit you," John said, trying not to laugh at the way the expression was shoehorned on. "Erm, is it OK if I..." he gestured at his own clothing, which was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Sherlock made an agreeing-sort-of-gesture, shifting a little to allow John the space to do so.

John tossed his shirt away, then shimmied out of his trousers and pants, gratefully letting them fall over the edge of the bed. He pulled at the covers. Nice, this was - comfortable, almost domestic (if such a word would not run and hide from the presence of Sherlock).

Naked, John was different; less imposing, far from less interesting, though. All the layers stripped away, leaving something few were allowed to see. _Sherlock_ was. He helped shift the covers, letting John move them as he willed. Covers; Sherlock - it was all one.

John wiggled himself back next to Sherlock, drawing the covers atop both of them. He closed his eyes. Sex, nudity, warmth, closeness, covers - this was all leading up to a very relaxed John. He began to drift off.

"Maybe I should get a bigger bed," Sherlock mumbled, lazily. An idea, that. Every free night, like this, and during cases, himself resting close to John, watching him sleep or read, or pleasure himself. Whispering in his ear, perhaps. Telling him what to do. Yes.

"This one's all right," John replied, sleepily, then let himself slide right back down into comfortable, sated warmth.

"Mm." But what to do with John's room, then? Getting anyone else in the flat was unthinkable, of course; would it work better as a lab or a study? John might have an opinion, Sherlock thought, but the other man was already asleep, snoring gently.

* * *

It was likely the cold that woke John; his body heat alone was not enough to warm both himself and the Sherlock-sized cavity to his side. Or perhaps it had been the last noises of Sherlock leaving - a step on the stairs, the click of a door. All that he knew was that he was awake, and alone, and the bed this morning was much less warm and comfortable than it had been the night before.

He rubbed his eyes. It was too much to ask, wasn't it, that Sherlock might stay in bed, waking up with the person he had just had sex with the night before? No, John reminded himself - _Sherlock did warn me_. He yawned, stretching. He'd have to get out of bed and into clothes, he thought sullenly. Bugger winter.

The bedroom door slammed open to reveal a fully dressed Sherlock, wild-eyed and awake.

"I'm not expecting anyone or anything, so stay indoors!"

The door slammed shut again and remained so for a few, blessed seconds, before opening again.

"Although if something does arrive, do NOT call me." Sherlock paused. All in all, he wouldn't mind the company, and John did look rather lovely, all disheveled and confused. "Perhaps you'd better come with me?"

John stopped staring at the Sherlock microburst to look down at his own nude, unshowered self. "What?" he asked, feeling a little stupid in the face of this onslaught.

"Right," Sherlock agreed. "You should probably get dressed first."

"Time for a shower...?" John asked, trying to put into his voice and manner that it really was necessary.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did people have to _sleep_ all the time? All right; people, fair enough, but why _John_? He had better things to do. If he'd been up earlier, he would have had plenty of time for a shower. "Fine."

John really didn't think he could have survived without a shower. Come was still sticky in his mouth and smeared in the region of his crotch; the latter itched horribly. Washing all of that down the drain woke him up nicely, and he finally felt like a reasonable human being again when, with his teeth scrubbed and fresh clothing on, he trotted back down the stairs to the main room.

The shower took eleven minutes and fourteen seconds, with an additional four minutes for John to throw whatever passed for clothes with him on, all of which Sherlock spent pacing. He glanced up when John finally came down the stairs, looking more or less like always, if a little wetter. "All done? Good!" Any reply was not worth hearing; Sherlock turned on his heel and headed out.

John knew all to well that if he didn't keep up, he'd be left behind to find his own way. He shrugged into his coat and grabbed his scarf, buttoning the former and donning the latter as he followed Sherlock out of the door and into the breathtakingly cold, bright morning.


	2. Chapter 2

It was rather a bright sort of day, the sun still not warming, but the light was pleasant enough, highlighting the odd puddle of half-melted snow. Sherlock strode ahead, taking pleasure in the sound of John's steady footsteps behind. Time was of the essence; if they acted soon enough, it would all seem coincidental, arbitrary. But wait too long, let the enemy see that they'd clearly given some thought to the matter, and suddenly, an advantage was lost. Not today, though! Sherlock stepped hurriedly across the road, stepping between where he knew the cars would be, hearing John swear softly behind. Well, here they were. He stopped, waiting for John to make the crossing.

"An estate agent?" John asked, frowning his confusion.

"Just play along."

* * *

It was all about first impressions, really. Both ways. All it took was a glance to determine the nature of the mousey blonde woman who greeted them - Sherlock had, of course, kept the place under surveillance, but that was beside the point. Single, fashion conscious, considering _that_ cardigan with _those_ shoes; early thirties trying to look mid twenties and desperately failing. It was like laying a puzzle; you found which piece was missing by the shape of the ones surrounding it. And so, Sherlock smiled winningly, clasping her hand with barely concealed enthusiasm, dropping a comment about her scarf.

This was... this was far too strange, John thought. The way Sherlock could just put on a face like that - suddenly become a normal human being, smiling and gushing like anyone he would normally consider an idiot. The contrast between the man he was and the man he was appearing to be was terribly, terribly creepy. John smiled and nodded at the agent, trying not to look sideways at Sherlock with his discomfiture on his face.

"You two looking for a flat, then?" the woman said with a knowing smile, looking from John to Sherlock and back.

Sherlock beamed back at her, taking John's hand shyly. "Yes." He laughed breathily, making sure she saw the way their fingers intertwined, the way John's jeans matched Sherlock's shirt, the angle of his hips. Yes, that was the right look in her eyes; something not entirely predatory. "Yes, we are."

John felt like he was suffering from creepiness overload. He gave Sherlock a suspicious look. Sherlock squeezed his hand meaningfully, a hint of something in his eyes - urging him? The woman looked on expectantly. John quickly got with the act. "Oh, yes.. we're very keen." He nodded a little too enthusiastically.

Thank god; another second and Sherlock would have had to resort to pinching or patting, and they could only go so far without looking ridiculous. At any rate, the woman seemed pleased, ushering them into a small enclosure, and urging them to sit, seating herself on the opposite side of a table, behind a computer.

"Now then - do you to have anything particular in mind?"

Sherlock put a hand on John's thigh. "Well, John rather has his heart set on something in Westminster."

This was becoming a dare, John decided. Some strange game of Gay Chicken. "Yes, love it," he enthused, putting his hand energetically atop Sherlock's and squeezing it.

The woman nodded, typing. Sherlock looked at John's hand with concealed surprise. _Much_ better. He ought to have learned not to distrust John's resourcefulness. "Though personally, I'd prefer something a bit more suburbany." He smiled brightly. "You know, child friendly."

John tried very hard not to choke loudly, and turned it into an overcome-with-emotion eye rub instead. "Oh, yes..."

"But we're open to suggestions, really. Actually, we both quite like this area, don't we, John?" Sherlock smiled at him with the same infatuated look.

"Really, I'd be happy anywhere with him." John gave Sherlock his best saccharine smile. This was actually almost fun.

Sherlock grinned back, and the woman hurriedly looked down at her computer screen. She seemed genuinely touched. "So, is there anything in the local area?" He asked, innocently.

The woman tapped away at her computer. "Well... there is, as a matter of fact. In Baker Street. Right next to the Tube!" She turned the screen, showing, as Sherlock expected, a flat directly opposite 221B. Really, people were a little too easy to manipulate, sometimes.

"Oh, that's _perfect_ ," John gushed. The _Look_ that Sherlock threw at him suggested that he was getting a little _too_ camp. He made a mental note to dial it back.

"Yes, that might be just the thing." Details didn't matter, but Sherlock went into an avalanche of words about them anyway, drowning any remaining suspicion or doubt in showing times, price ranges, pet ownership policies and street views. The more he rambled on, the more she nodded, enthusiastically, so lost in the illusion that moving her in the right direction was nothing but a slight nudge.

John sat back and let Sherlock do the talking; now that he had gotten over the creepiness, it was entertaining to see him so absorbed in a role that was nothing like himself. An idle thought about gender roles flitted through his mind, and he stifled a laugh. _Oh, Sherlock will handle the business matters, I'm no good with money and contracts and all that..._

Sherlock had half expected John to bristle at this deception; domestic and light and fluffy as it was (and yet, perhaps, a little too close to home for comfort), but he had simply accepted it, taking to the role as naturally as anything. And he was there, and it felt natural, really, for Sherlock to lay a hand on his thigh, rubbing a thumb across it now and again. In some small measure, here and now, John was _his_.

That was a little much, as it was genuinely sexy, and John didn't want any part of this ridiculous put-on to affect his actual connection with Sherlock. He patted the man's hand gamely now and then, trying to make it all just part of the act. Sherlock finally pulled that hand away, to John's relief. Sherlock seemed to have charmed the woman into a non-agreement agreement; the woman handed Sherlock a key, and the two of them were ushered out with a handful of brochures, some of which advertized the quality of schools in their area. " _Kids_?" John said, incredulously.

Sherlock walked ahead with assured steps. There was still much to be done. "That's what couples have."

"Only the insane ones," John grumbled.

Was that so? Sherlock had never really considered it; parents begat children, and a large number of parents were couples, or some other sort of family-type arrangement. He had never expected to be part of one - still did not - and their motivations had never seemed to matter outside the context of a case, where they could be easily extrapolated anyway. "It's not important; we made the right impression." He handed John the rest of the brochures. "Here, take these."

"What do I do with these?" John asked, flipping through them.

Sherlock shrugged. "Just hold on to them. Come along." Busses ran every half hour, and they could just about reach the next one.

John shoved the brochures in his back pocket, then proceeded to do what, he thought wryly to himself, he does best - he followed Sherlock.

* * *

  
Half an hour later, looking around the fluorescently lit purgatory that was IKEA, John could only think that following Sherlock had been a substantial mistake. "We have furniture already that _isn't_ crap," he told Sherlock, dubiously.

Sherlock handed him a frog-shaped pillow. "We won't in our new flat, though, will we?"

John put it back on the shelf immediately. "Why are we getting a flat across the street from our own?" He asked, picking up a blob of a lamp with distaste.

"We're not." Sherlock took the lamp away from him, gently. It was all about creating the right image.

"Then why are we wasting time furnishing it?"

Oh, for heaven's sake - why this constant for explanation? "Because," Sherlock hissed, pulling John close and flicking through the e-mails in his inbox until he found the right one, "of this!"

"All right...." John said, puzzled. The drama of Sherlock's reveal would have been more appropriate for, say, a phone picture of a decapitated body floating in the river, but it was simply an advertisement for a house in London, at an address that rang no bells of familiarity.

Sherlock stared, incredulous. "Do you _ever_ read the news, John? I know for a fact you have a laptop."

"I use it for journal articles and porn. _What_ news?"

"This," Sherlock pointed at the screen, "is where a woman was found killed last month." He narrowed his eyes. Not an interesting case in itself; a single, elderly woman living on her own, killed when she caught a burglar in the act. Or so the police assumed. "Someone is sending me a message."

"Ah, right. Moriarty again?" John asked, grimly.

"We can't know for sure," Sherlock muttered. There was no shortage of criminals in London, after all. Yes, London. Methodically, his mind went through this and last year's unsolved murders, rifling through remembered facts. It all fit together, somehow, just not in any obvious way. People. Properties. Murder. He picked up an ice cube tray with little heart shapes, considering it for a moment before throwing it back. "Meanwhile, it is essential that we create a diversion."

John looked warily at the stuffed heart, its arms outspread as if it were being mugged. "If this doesn't divert them, I don't know what will."

Sherlock looked from John to the pillow and back. It seemed absurd that both objects should be able to occupy the same space. "We can but hope."

John sighed. "Right, let's get on with it."

Sherlock nodded. "You stay here, try to get a good selection of..." he gestured vaguely; he'd never really bothered with housewares, "...things." While they were here, though, there was something else he could do. He headed off through the maze of fake rooms, watching the people watching them. As he rounded a corner, he passed a woman holding a napkin ring that looked like a hedgehog and grinning hysterically. Truth be told, he _loved_ IKEA.

John watched Sherlock walk away - all things considered, it was a rather good sight - then turned back to the shelves. He picked up a small black spotted pillow, looking over the assorted trinkets for anything that any decent human being could live with.

* * *

  
Sherlock eventually met back up with him, dragging him to the checkout. Somehow, they managed to get the long, heavy, flat packages that Sherlock had picked up onto the bus. Getting them up the narrow stairwell was even more challenging. "What is _in_ this?" John grunted.

"Just get it into the lounge," Sherlock huffed, "I'll deal with it later." He turned abruptly, feeling movement behind him. Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a beaming smile, clearly _dying_ to ask what this was about, and just barely held back by convention and politeness from doing so.

"Oh... hello there. Been shopping then, have you?" She eyed the myriad parcels, in particular the long ones under Sherlock's arm.

"Yes, well." Sherlock did not particularly want to have this conversation, but the very items she was curious about were unwieldy, preventing him from storming past.

John met her eye, giving her an 'I don't know either' shrug. He was on her side, honestly; this was ridiculous.

"It's nice to get something new around the place, isn't it?" She patted Sherlock on the arm, conspiratorially. "I don't mind you redecorating, really," She said, in a stage whisper. "So long as it's not done with firearms, yes?"

"Erm, yes." Really, it was impossible to move past the woman!

"I'm just on my way to Mrs. Hastings's flat, upstairs. She died last week, you know."

"Really," Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. As if he didn't know. The day a person died in _his own building_ without him being aware, Sherlock really would prefer to be shot.

"Just some housewarming gifts for a friend, Mrs. Hudson," John interjected, doing his best to smile charmingly. It was a challenge; the packs were the perfect combination of heavy and unwieldy, and he struggled to get them over each step.

"Ooh, that's nice, isn't it? Well, I must be getting on, you two have fun!"

She headed up the stairs, _finally_ allowing Sherlock to maneuver past. He sighed in relief, hurrying into the flat.

"Good day, Mrs. Hudson!" John called to her retreating back. Politeness to Mrs. Hudson was never time ill-spent, John reflected - he knew what side his bread was buttered on, and more importantly who would supply bread and butter when Sherlock forgot (as he usually did) to get groceries.

With some difficulty, Sherlock hastened into the lounge, emptying his pockets of huge handfuls of Allen wrenches. Useful things, and they gave them away for _free_.

"We're not going to assemble this _here_ , are we?" John asked, dumping the flat packages on the ground with some relief.

"What?" Sherlock looked at the wrenches. "Oh. Of course not; we're not going to assemble anything." Well, possibly, but that could wait.

"Good," John said, with feeling, sitting on the arm of his chair.

"We'll have to move the mattress, of course."

"Yours or mine?"

"How does that matter? We can start moving at quarter past five. Most people will be out of there by then."

John looked at the packages on the ground. "All of this - over there. Why didn't we just go out later and bring it to the other apartment directly?"

Sherlock looked at him strangely. "Have you been to IKEA after 4 PM?"

"Before today, I hadn't been at all, and I now know I was doing something right."

"Actually, it was rather quiet there today."

"The furniture was plenty loud enough," John grumbled. He sat fully in his chair, his back complaining loudly about the errand they had just run.

"Remember - quarter past five." Picking up a few wrenches, Sherlock hurried to his bedroom. He would need some of the parcels later, but John would fall asleep, and Sherlock could be quiet if he wanted to be. He closed the door, settled down, and waited.

John looked at his phone. Two hours. He could productively fill two hours. He put up his feet and napped for about fifteen minutes; feeling much better, he pulled out some articles he had filed for 'when you have time,' and started to read.

* * *

  
He was interrupted by Sherlock blowing out of his room like the first gusts of some incipient natural disaster.

"Mattress," he said, simply, staring down at John.

"Are we naming inanimate objects? 'Boris Johnson.'" John put his reading material aside, stretched, and stood.

"Yours is closer." Sherlock headed up the stairs, striding into John's room like it was his own. Technically, he supposed, a case could be made; John would be surprised to hear how the rent was divvied up.

John followed. "Just tell me what to do..." He didn't add 'like usual,' but someone of Sherlock's deductive powers surely did not need him to.

* * *

  
None of the little items Sherlock directed John to get together were important in and of themselves, of course. It was all of it, the picture it made as they crossed the street, struggling and bickering slightly. The mattress, though - that had to be visible. Well, it would be hard for it not to be, flopping about between the two of them, refusing to remain in any sort of sensible, carryable position. It takes several trips, but between the two of them, they manage to get it all across. Rather pleased, all things considered, Sherlock pursed his lips, moving the mattress closer to the window.

John dumped his load of packages in the middle of the room. "It actually has promise," he said, looking around the apartment. It was old, with hideous 70s-era wallpaper, but was spacious and sturdy, and had lovely old oak hardwood floors.

Sherlock took off his gloves, looking out window. "The view is rather nice."

"It's a specific view you're looking for, I gather?" John replied. Sherlock stood aside, allowing John to see the perfect angle the window allowed on 221B Baker Street. "So you got this to spy on us?"

Sherlock chose to ignore the obvious snark. "In a manner of speaking - though I haven't 'gotten' anything." All the little odds and ends lay scattered on the floor, having fallen out of the bags John had so unceremoniously dropped. Sherlock pushed them out of the way with his foot, arranging the mattress more carefully. There, now. A perfect view.

"Oh, right - I forgot that you just batted your eyes and charmed yourself into the key." Even just the memory of Sherlock giggling - giggling! - and practically flirting with the agent made John nauseated and amused at the same time.

"It's useful to have contacts." Taking off his coat, Sherlock sat down. It wasn't terribly comfortable for a long-legged person, but it was fine. Besides, with any luck, it would be over fairly quickly.

"Settling in?" John asked, leaning against the wall and raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock looked back at him. "I could have gotten a chair, but we're less visible like this."

John looked out the window. "What are we looking for?"

"Activity," Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on the building opposite. All these questions, constantly. Would it kill the man to use his brain, rather than rely on that of others? It was more than capable.

Activity was happening, but it was the normal activity of a normal busy London street. Not, John thought wryly, that he would be able to tell if it were anything else. Sherlock would be able to tell if that slender woman pausing to touch up her lipstick were sinister or just vain, but John had no chance. His eyes flicked back over to Sherlock, and was surprised to note that the man was looking at him, rather than out of the window. "You can watch me back at our place." More comfortable, all 'round.

Sherlock set his jaw. If John had not persisted in asking questions, there would have been no reason to look at him. It was rather a nice thing to look at though, and what Sherlock was waiting to observe would not require split-second timing. "Your point?"

John pointed out the window as it to say, 'isn't this why we're here?'

"It may take some time." Sherlock returned his attention to that particular set of windows, dark now, looking for any sign. He would possibly be able to pick the culprits out on the street, but it was more than likely that he would not have to. Besides, what could he do with that information? He had to catch them in the _act_. It was virtually impossible to get people arrested merely for walking around Baker Street with ill intent - Sherlock had tried, more than once.

John shrugged, jamming his hands in his pockets, and looked out the window. He could only manage about twenty minutes of this before he became both thoroughly bored and thoroughly certain that Sherlock would see anything he could possibly see, and more than that on top. He therefore left the window and began to wander around the apartment, checking closets and cabinets. It was fully vacated, not a scrap of paper nor a lonely coat hanger left behind.

A single, bright ceiling lamp illuminated the room they were in. Sherlock was constantly aware of it, like he was of everything in the room, but this intense concentration was exacerbating everything. Besides, night was falling. "Get the lights, would you?"

John flicked the light off, and was startled by the darkness that gripped the room. It was later than he had thought. He looked over at Sherlock; the man was dimly illuminated by the streetlamps through the window. His face was thrown into sharp relief, his dark hair dissolving into shadow.

Sherlock felt the stare as vividly as he had the stark lamp light. He turned his head for a moment, meeting John's eyes. "You can look at me at home, you know." His lips twitched, thoughts turning to pots and kettles.

"I wouldn't mind." It was a brilliant view.

"Or keep on doing it here, if you like." Sherlock faced the window again. He did not need to keep looking at John to know he was there, or what he was doing.

"I wouldn't mind," John repeated, deadpan.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. He had, at first, intended to do this alone, as he always did. John, though always a factor somewhere in Sherlock's mind, was still a new thing, in so many ways. This was better. He shifted a little on the mattress. Better in a lot of ways.

John tried to look out of the window, but not having the slightest idea what he was looking for - and knowing that Sherlock was unlikely to supply anything if he hadn't volunteered it already - he started to look at Sherlock more. That, definitely, was a worthwhile view. Especially once Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He was not a man for casual undressing, so that small amount was almost erotic. Those lean, agile hands sliding a button smoothly through a hole; the silk shirt conforming to the body underneath....

Sherlock's lips quirked, half-way between a smile and a frown. Being admired was not something he was unfamiliar with - he knew he conformed to a physical type many people tended to find attractive, even taking into account the diversity of personal taste. He was not above using it, if needed, though the whole business usually tended to annoy him more than anything. It was impossible not to appreciate John's lingering glances, though, each seeming to apologize for existing. It would be easy to play up to this - there were subtle ways of posing without making it seem like you were - but that would be disingenuous. Sherlock was working. Even as these thoughts flitted through his mind, his concentration was on the case; the view before him. After all, the view behind would still be there, later.

John was pulled out of his reverie by the rumbling of his stomach. "Mind if I step out the back for some food?"

Sherlock waved him off. "Don't get kidnapped."

"I can't make promises. What do you want?"

"I'm fine." John's mattress was surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock stretched.

"You haven't eaten in hours," John replied, doggedly. Sherlock took shockingly poor care of himself on cases. All of his comments about it interfering with his brain activity smacked of bullshit to John; the brain was an organ like any other, and needed energy like they all did.

"No time when I'm on a case. Digestion takes too much energy."

"You're just sitting around looking out the window. I think you can spare the energy for some curry."

"It's just how I work, John." Sherlock made a face. Food was... complicated, at the best of times. It was easier not to think about it, really, until you needed it bad enough that nature took over, bypassing your conscious mind. He could enjoy it, then. He could enjoy a lot of things that way.

"You're mental," John sighed.

"So I've been told."

John nodded. He took in one last view, then slipped out of the back of the building. He was not one to ignore Sherlock's warnings, and therefore cut through a few yards and a few alleys to find a cheap all-night takeout spot. He took a similarly convoluted route back, feeling ridiculously like primitive man back from a successful hunt of take-out Chinese.

* * *

  
Sherlock was in much the same position as he had been in when John left. John would not have laid any money against the possibility that Sherlock had not moved at all. John shook his head and hunkered in a corner, opening the takeout box and digging into the chow mein. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"I won't." The room felt better with John in it. Right now, that was all Sherlock needed.

"Righto." John watched Sherlock as he ate; it was far better than anything that would be on the telly back at 221, anyway.

The room felt more comfortable indeed. Warm, even. Sherlock settled back on the mattress, unbuttoning his shirt a little more, well aware that John was looking. A fun little game, that. Better than a meal, any day.

John swallowed the last bite, putting the box aside. "How long do we wait?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Surely, that was self-evident? "As long as it takes. You needn't stay up, of course." Yes. There was the mattress. Appealing, that. John close. He scooted over, making a little more room next to himself. Where John should be.

"Want to take shifts?" John nodded at the mattress.

"I don't sleep much."

"Don't sleep or eat when you're on a case?" John said. Of course he didn't, John had seen that many times. Did that mean he also didn't...

"Yes. Surely you've noticed?"

"Yes..." The combination of 'Sherlock' and 'mattress' was appealing on many levels, but one in particular would not vacate John's mind.

Sherlock looked up, briefly. Hesitation. There were a number of possible reasons why, but which was it? "What?"

John shook himself. Sherlock was busy, he didn't need to get pawed. "No, nothing. Keep at it." He did walk over to lie down on the mattress, however. If there was to be any action later, he should prepare for it now by resting when there was absolutely nothing at all going on. He lay down on the mattress, giving Sherlock as much space as the mattress allowed, and fell into a doze.

Gently, not much thought given to it, Sherlock put his arms around him. In his sleep, John shifted closer, his head. Sherlock sighed, stroking John's arm, letting him nestle there and snore quietly.

  


* * *

  
John woke abruptly as Sherlock shifted position. "Muh!" He made a face as he tried to move; his body had stiffened from the unnatural sleeping position.

Sherlock smiled down at him. With the view less of a concern, he had settled into a more comfortable position, allowing John to curl around him, like a cat. It was hard to resist petting him, really.

John carefully sorted his joints out. "Anything happen?" He rubbed the mess that his hair had become; at least he could make it evenly messy.

"No. Which means it won't, for now." Sherlock straightened, testing his muscles gingerly.

John pulled out his phone to check the time. 11:26. "Hell, I didn't mean to sleep that long." He looked up at Sherlock. "So our criminal element has strict working hours?"

"I wouldn't call them strict, but there are practical considerations." Sherlock leaned back. He never felt tired while working, but he was comfortably relaxed, now. Not a bad thing to be.

"Mm. Do we go back home, then?"

"Not the best idea. There is the remote possibility that I'm wrong, in which case at least one of us should remain here. And it would look odd, considering our cover, for one of us to leave in the middle of the night." Sherlock offered a smile.

John smiled at the memory of the day's antics. "Our cover."

"Yes." Grabbing a couple of brightly colored pillows out a bag, Sherlock handed a few to John. They should have brought some blankets too, really. It was hard to remember to consider John's needs, so utterly alien to his own. "Here."

John took the disgusting head rests. "Not entirely a cover, eh?" he said to Sherlock, with a grin.

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, even if we're not quite that saccharine, we _are_ sleeping together."

What on Earth did that have to do with anything? "Not all that often," Sherlock pointed out. What was John trying to imply? _And what,_ a deeper part of him suggested, grimly, _have YOU been trying to imply?_

John frowned, taken a little aback. "It's more of a 'yes or no' thing than frequency, isn't it?"

"Are you trying to make some sort of point?"

The irritation in Sherlock's voice startled John. "No, just making conversation..." It was supposed to be amusing, wasn't it? The conversation had taken an abrupt 180 somewhere a few words ago.

"I'm not the person to come to for reassurance, John." Why were they talking about this? They were not supposed to be talking about this; John had made the exact point that they would not have to, no more than a week and a half ago. No thinking, just doing. Sherlock could handle that. Relaxation drained out of him, leaving him haggard and restless. Bags. Things. The things needed to go into the bags; that was something to do. He busied himself with it, sorting colors and shapes and sizes, pointlessly.

"Reassurance?" John echoed, utterly baffled.

This needed to be nipped in the bud. It was easier, Sherlock found, if he was turned away from John. "If you think any of this," he said coldly, indicating the bags, the mattress, the flat, the entire scheme, "is my way of saying I want some sort of..." even the word was difficult. The 'r' in particular, refusing to roll over his tongue. Sherlock pushed it out. "Relationship..."

Humor and startlement warred for control of John's expression. "I wouldn't want a relationship based on IKEA."

"Because that's not what this is about."

"No, it's a front for this odd stakeout. Sherlock, what are you on about?"

In the pale half-light, John looked almost ghostly. The small part of Sherlock that was not tired up in strategy, planning, observation and calculation wanted to reach out to him and pull him desperately close, for some reason. "Nothing."

It was a minute part; one he was hardly aware of, most of the time. Any of the time, truth be told. He once had to be dragged out of a building in which he was collecting DNA evidence when the thing had caught fire. It would have taken more than half an hour for the fire to progress to the point where it would have been dangerous for Sherlock to remain, but the damn firefighters had insisted, in a rather physical sort of way. As they were pulling him out through the smoke, there had been a moment, the briefest of one, where he'd snapped out of it, that fervor investigation lit in him, and he'd been genuinely afraid. John... for some reason, John could make that happen with a look. "So long as that's understood."

John sat up. They had derailed, somewhere, and he had to make sure they were still looking at the same set of tracks. "Look, Sherlock, I thought we had a nice understanding where we generally got on, and every one in a while touched each other's willies in mutually pleasing and possibly erotic ways. I thought the cover of us being IKEA-loving poofs was funny in that context, without meaning to imply that we are, in any way, IKEA-loving poofs. Are you in one of your moods?"

"What do you mean 'one of my moods'?"

"You're touchy." John paused, considering. "I mean, even for you."

Sherlock twitched. Why was John pressing this; there was absolutely no reason to _keep pressing this_. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

John sighed, sitting back and looking directly in Sherlock's eyes. The poets couldn't be more wrong; eyes weren't windows into the soul, they were sacks of fluid, and he was not getting a bit of information out of Sherlock's. Dark, in the dim light, intense, ineffable. He couldn't read the man any more than he could a book in Hebrew.

If some of John's looks could render Sherlock terrified, others, like this one, oddly calmed him. It deflected negativity like a shield. "What?"

"You still like me?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, John cringed at how desperately teenagerish they sounded. But it was true, it was what he needed to know - were they still friends, after the sex had settled a little? Things changed after sex, always, _always_ , and not invariably for the better.

"...yes?" No other answer was possible, but Sherlock had only the vaguest idea what the question had been.

"Good," John replied, nodding. That was... something, and better than nothing.

"OK?" Was it? How could John know, so easily? What were they even talking about? Feelings? How could you _talk_ about feelings?

John reached out to touch Sherlock's face. He needed contact; words weren't enough, he craved that reassurance of flesh on flesh. "OK."

That made a little more sense. John's hand on his cheek made sense. Sherlock looked at it, wide-eyed. It was stroking, now. That was fine, too. Sherlock's eyes flittered shut, and when he opened them again, he put his own hand on John's.

"I..." John sighed. "I do like you." Simple enough clear enough - he hoped - for both of them.

It was vitally important, Sherlock felt, that he understand this, but it was like John was speaking some obscure dialect he could only barely comprehend. He stroked John's hand - that was solid, that was measurable - and nodded, carefully.

John pulled his hand away and leaned back, looking, trying to gauge Sherlock. "That's all, really."

"OK." Sherlock nodded again, feeling like he'd passed some sort of test.

John felt some tension drain out of him as he saw Sherlock's body visibly relax. He looked out the window again. "As long as we're just waiting here..." Well. Food and sleep were two pillars of the needs of humanity, and there was a third that seemed like it would be a good ending to the conversation. And they _were_ on a mattress.

"Yes?" Sherlock mumbled. The case was still at the forefront of his mind, but random thoughts were fluttering in the background now, not so much distracting as annoying him.

John smiled what he hoped would come across as a suggestive smile. He had blown those badly, in the past. But he _was_ in the company of the World's Greatest Detective...

Right. Sexual activity. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as John leaned in. The memory of the taste of John's lips made him lick his own, and sigh, softly. Nothing urgently required his attention, for now; a kiss would be perfectly acceptable.

John pressed his lips gently to Sherlock's. He could feel that the man was... not exactly raging for sex. But perhaps, if he eased Sherlock into the idea, with a gentle kiss - much like this one...

Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing back. Yes. This was good. Relaxing, like John sleeping against him. Distraction fled his mind, and he could _think_ again. Soothing. Pleasant. Not like the intrusive rush of sex, or the stark demands of food; just John.

This was actually quite good for John, too - the slow, languid sensuality of it. He kissed Sherlock very slowly, very gently, stroking his cheek, breathing carefully. Oh, this was _brilliant_.

So long as it remained like this; slow, gentle, unobtrusive, Sherlock welcomed it. He left John in control - he seemed in no hurry either. Maybe they could just keep doing this all night? That might be all right. Better than sleep, certainly.

How long had this kiss been going on? Minutes, hours? Time had gone bent, somehow, lost in a sea of slow, languid tongue-strokes, soft lips, Sherlock's warm skin. He eventually pulled back slightly, breathing and resting his forehead against Sherlock's. He was... what was he? He was horny, yes, but that seemed almost unimportant, distant, someone else's concern.

Sherlock observed John carefully. There was a change in body language; in intention? There were clear signs of arousal, but in Sherlock's experience, John took charge when aroused; he did not hang back like this, so passive. There would come a time, Sherlock knew, when John would remember that he was attracted to women, and leave. Was that it? Was this little experiment with Sherlock already over?

John breathed carefully; something in his throat was making it difficult. A quickie had been all he had been thinking of - there they were, stuck in an apartment, on a mattress, so why not? But the more this slow, languid, sensual kissing went on, the less like a quickie he felt. The feel of Sherlock's lips, the closeness of his body - all of these were magnificent, but the roiling feeling inside was something different, something not quite sexual; something made of this long slow kiss, and this proximity, and a million indefinable moments. No, he recognized it - he had felt it before, and nothing terribly good had ever come of it, but it could not be denied...

"I think I love you." His voice was a little choked. What a thing to say - after all, Sherlock defied love, snorted at the very idea of how irrational it was, shook his head knowingly when he saw love-induced or love-enabled criminality. Yet John did love him. Loved the angular features, the keen mind, the irrational mood swings, the highs and the lows, the lean body in his arms, the sultry voice; he loved Sherlock. God help him.

Sherlock pulled back, staring. He had to see John's face - where the words had come from. He could not have said it - surely he had not? But disbelief was a pointless exercise, and Sherlock did not want to indulge in it. _Love_. Adrenaline flooded him as shock set in; something sick and churning stirring in his gut.

John looked up at Sherlock. Maybe there was something to this 'eyes' business - Sherlock's were warm, almost glowing... No, it was his own eyes; something in them was making the scene a little blurry. He blinked.

Sherlock pushed away, eyes narrowed. "Love." The word tasted bitter, like the bile in his throat. A soiled word, meaning too much. He swallowed, wanting to retch.

The look on Sherlock's face was the same one John had seen earlier, when he had swallowed John's come, and the feelings that it evoked snapped him out of his reverie. "Erm, yes..." he said, uncertainly.

 _No_. Not this, not now. Everything about this was wrong, utterly. It did not fit; Sherlock could not make it fit - not now, in this state, with everything else on his mind. And John, sitting there, gawping inanely like he expected to win some sort of award. "For fuck's sake..." Sherlock rubbed his eyes, turning away.

"What?" John frowned, his mind whirling.

 _Fight or flight,_ Sherlock's body told him, and there was no fight in him. Not for this. He got up, grabbing his coat. "You'll be safe here," he choked. "Just..." Nothing more to say; John had said plenty. Sherlock dressed, not pausing, sticking his gloves in his pocket and leaving his coat unbuttoned.

"Where are you going?" John asked. His innards were starting to roil, uncomfortably, a sick feeling welling up inside.

Sherlock did not turn to see John, startled, no doubt, on the mattress. Fool. Thrice damned fool. As he pulled the door open, Sherlock wasn't quite sure to whom he was referring. "Somewhere I can THINK!" Sherlock hurried out, muttering under his breath. "For _fuck's sake_..."

"Are you even human?" John yelled after him. Yes, declarations of love could be... awkward, messy, unwanted, but to act like _this_?

The door slammed behind Sherlock, and John flopped back on his displaced mattress with a shuddering sigh. He had cocked that up royally, hadn't he? What a complete, utter mess. He looked around at the crap they had bought for this apartment, scattered from Sherlock's hasty exit, and covered his eyes with his forearm.

After a few minutes of lying on his back and feeling like shit, John sat up and looked around. The dull buzz of activity from the street was the only sound. He crawled to the window and peered out of it. Just a normal night on a normal London street, as well as he could see.

He shuffled back to the mattress and sat, watching the world pass by outside. He felt strangely numb, disconnected, someone else watching him sit on a mattress in the dark, watching people walk back and forth, back and forth...


	3. Chapter 3

Ain't seen you for a while, Mister Holmes." The owner, Mike, a nondescript blonde of indeterminate gender (not indeterminate biological sex, to Sherlock, but what did that matter) chatted away idly as Sherlock settled into his usual booth. "Anything I can get you, then?"

"Tea will be fine, thank you."

Mike nodded, knowing Sherlock's habits. It felt infinitely comfortable being around someone who did. He was in no mood for explanations.

The cafe was a small one, somewhere between mid- and upper price range, offering organic vegetarian versions of traditional pub food alongside fair trade teas and coffees. No alcohol; no tobacco even before the stricter smoking laws had set in. Lights were low, music was nonexistent, and whatever you needed that was not on the menu could be obtained by the back door for a reasonable price. Sherlock was not here for that tonight, though.

He was here to think.

Fishing out his phone, he scrolled through incoming e-mails. Two more since he left Baker Street, each showing another flat for sale; one in Kensington, one in Richmond. No traceable address - none that his usual hacker contacts could trace, at any rate - and no messages of any kind attached. Sherlock scanned the ads again, huffing in frustration. There was _nothing_ ; no hidden ciphers, no subtle watermarks, no careful arrangement of furniture in meaningful patterns.

Mike brought him his tea, and Sherlock sipped it, gratefully. Why hadn't they _come?_ If these adds were a message for him; a warning to stay away, as they surely were, him having left the flat should have spurned them into action. Mrs. Hastings's flat had been put on the market three days ago when he and John-

Sherlock bit his fist. _No_. That was _not_ useful. Think in general terms. Three days ago when _things had been set in motion_. Who was Mrs. Hastings? Middle-aged, single, disliked pets, avid letter writer; complained loudly of all night violin-recitals, tenure at the University of Westminster though she rarely seemed to leave the house; dressed colorfully to draw attention away from her natural lack of color and plain features, voted Conservative, had flowers delivered once a month; carnations, if possible... He set the cup down with a frustrated, unsatisfying 'plink'. No good, this flimsy cookery.

He blinked, staring at the cup, a bright, annoying orange on a deliberately mismatched red saucer. On its own. Mismatched.

Cursing through gritted teeth, he threw a few notes on the table, hurrying out the door.

* * *

John jerked awake with a start. Dull grey light stained the sky outside, and his back screamed at him for sleeping upright, braced on his arms. He pulled himself to his feet, walked over to the wall, and leaned his head against it with a heartfelt groan.

What a complete, utter tit he was. Good god. What had he been thinking, telling Sherlock something like that? How did he _expect_ the man to react - with delight and gratitude? Sherlock would welcome emotional attachment with all the joy he would welcome herpes.

John finally pulled himself together. There was nothing more for him to do here, so he left the flat and crossed back over to 221B. Sherlock's door was shut tight; John had brought on another one of the man's Moods, apparently. He picked up some clean clothes and had a quick shower, then took off for the clinic. Sherlock would hear that he hd returned, and choose to come out - or not.

He hadn't chosen to come out later that evening, when John went for his run, or when he slept with extreme discomfort on the bare box spring (his mattress still at the other apartment, and he wasn't going to sleep on the couch, right outside of Sherlock's bedroom door), or even the next morning.

It was sometime later that morning that Mrs. Hudson came in.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, dear, but Sherlock hasn't yet given me the rent for this month - I know how moody he can get..."

John looked over at Sherlock's door, shut tight and sullenly silent. He looked over at Mrs. Hudson in silent apology - just as his phone rang.

The voice on the line was the estate agent they had seen the previous day, sounding a great deal less friendly than she had at that point. The thrust of her call was to ask why Mr. Harms had not returned the key, and what were all of these belongings doing at the flat? She was aware that Mr. Westin was not the one to address these issues, but could he please let Mr. Harms know to contact them...?

John hung up his mobile, tightlipped, and walked to Sherlock's bedroom door. Yes, Sherlock would not appreciate being disturbed, but he had left too much hanging to just retreat. John banged on the door with his fist. "Sherlock, enough - you have things to deal with out here."

No sound, no movement, no sign of life came from the room. A number of distressing scenarios started to come to John's mind. He jiggled the door, but it was securely bolted.

John turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, an apologetic expression on his face. She shrugged, waving her hands in a 'just go ahead' manner.

John took a step back and kicked the door open. A chill settled over him as he looked at the empty, disused room. Sherlock did not come home last night, he was certain.

Did he make it anywhere else? "Don't get kidnapped," Sherlock had said. He was typically not a man to worry about, but he had been rather distraught last night, hadn't he? And that had been thanks to one John Watson.

This unpleasant line of thought was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson peeking over John's shoulder. "Oh, dear..."

"Mrs. Hudson, can we speak about the rent later? I have a few other things to deal with..." He hustled her out of the flat, pulling out his mobile. The conversation was one he was not terribly proud of, but it did the job. Mr. Westin was terribly upset, as after an argument, Mr. Harms had, well, gone his own way, and they couldn't take the place. He was very sorry, but he would remove the belongings from the flat and make sure the agent got the key back. He hung up, feeling an utter twat, and started to fetch their shite from the flat across the street.

As he was carrying what he estimated to be the penultimate load back, his phone rang. He ignored it. If it were important, they could leave a message. He dropped his armload of accoutrement in Sherlock's room, on top of the rest.

His phone rang again as he was walking back to fetch the last load. The number was Unavailable, but he answered anyway. Perhaps it was Sherlock... "Hello."

The voice on the other line was familiar, smooth, cultured, and not the Holmes that John had been hoping to hear from. "Oh. How disappointing. I was hoping you would know." Mycroft sounded mildly let down.

"You don't know either," John replied. It was more a statement than a question; Mycroft would not bother contacting him unless he had already exhausted his rather extensive surveillance network.

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft sighed gently. "I wouldn't worry, of course, but his phone is turned _off_."

He spoke as if this small fact were sufficient explanation - but, John pondered, wasn't it? Sherlock was happy to ignore his phone, but he never did _not_ want to know who was trying to contact him. He had never, in all of the time John had known him, turned it off. It was practically part of his body.

"Any suggestions of where to start?" John was startled by his own brusqueness, but Mycroft's attitude and the situation seemed to demand it. Sherlock was missing. Sherlock might be in trouble. Ergo, Sherlock must be found.

If it were possible for Mycroft to be friendly, John considered, his voice would soften into the register it just softened into. "I appreciate the sentiment, John, but if he were in trouble, he would either have gotten out of it himself, or contacted me. He has ways of doing that, you know. That leaves us with two... other alternatives. Either he does not want to be found - and believe you me; if Sherlock doesn't want to be found, he won't be, or..." Mycroft paused, delicately.

John swallowed. Some part of him knew the answer, but did not want to say it. "Or?"

Mycroft spoke even more gently. "Or it is too late for him to be found."

John leaned against the outside of the building, his legs suddenly feeling quite weak. "So I wait?"

"I'm afraid so." Mycroft paused. "And John?"

"Yes."

"Try to forgive him. He doesn't deal well with emotions. He never has. That doesn't mean he doesn't have them."

"You're good." John was not sure if it was Mycroft's powers of deduction or of surveillance that he was complimenting. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, either.

Mycroft's voice had a hint of a laugh. "Not quite good enough. You'll let me know if you hear anything, won't you?"

"Yes, although I imagine you'll know before I do."

"We shall see. Goodbye, John."

John put his mobile in his pocket. The world was... a little grey, a little blurry. He rested his head against the building, closing his eyes. Kidnapped, he had thought earlier - now, possibly, dead? It didn't make any sense. There was no reality without Sherlock anymore...

His phone rang again. He didn't open his eyes as he answered it. "Hello."

"Hi, John." Lestrade sounded painfully awkward. "Erm... I'm not sure how to ask you this, but would Sherlock have had any reason to," he coughed, incredulity trying to peek through, "fake his death?"

John opened his eyes, instantly alert. "Why are you asking?"

Lestrade's voice was atypically quiet. "We've found his phone."

John's heart sank. "I want to come by."

Lestrade put on his best brusque professional voice. "Yes, perhaps you'd better."

John's heart settled back into a slightly lower spot than it normally occupied. It had leapt high at the thought that Lestrade had evidence that Sherlock was faking his death - but all he had was more evidence that he _wasn't_ actually faking it.

He hit his head against the wall, gently, and pulled himself together. He had only one more load of crap to take away from the apartment; he should finish with that before heading to see Lestrade. One fewer thing to worry about.

John trotted up the stairs, and opened the door to the room. Three men looked up, in surprise. All three were tall, ill-shaven, and broad-shouldered; one had a shaved head, one had a ponytail, and all had ripped jeans and copious tattoos.

As the shaven-headed one reached into his jacket, a figure jumped out in front of him, and a very familiar voice said, " _No_. It's me you want."

"Sherlock!" John hissed. He had instincts for when armed unfriendlies were about, but they had just been tanked by Sherlock's appearance.

One of the thugs stood aside to reveal a man in a wheelchair, who glared at them both. The thug lowered his weapon - using his right hand, Sherlock noted, rather than the left, despite clearly being left handed. Unlike John though, this man had not been army trained to do so; he was instead compensating for the damage done to his favored left arm some time ago. All in all, not a stable-looking character; there was no telling if the order would hold. Sherlock held his arm up to shield John, almost instinctively.

"Who's this," the man huffed, "your lapdog?"

John felt naked, unarmed in front of the goons. "Who the fuck are you, wheelie-bin?" he barked, in no mood.

The man ignored him, keeping his attention on Sherlock. "You were a fool to reveal yourself. I would have been out of here in half an hour, and you could have gone home safely to your boyfriend." He clearly meant the term as an insult, and Sherlock bristled.

"What makes you think I would have let you get away?"

The man made a bizarre picture; taller than Sherlock, as evident by his posture, dressed in sweatpants, sweatshirt, socks and sandals in the kind of weather that made sensible people consider seasonal migration. Hollow cheeks and lean frame left him rather gaunt-looking, with white, short-cropped hair and huge glasses completing the ghoul-like image. He snorted. "If I had a sense of humor, I'd find that funny." Not that Sherlock was any judge, but he looked almost sad. "You're an exceptional man; I'm sorry it had to come to this." He narrowed his eyes. "I honestly don't understand why you had to meddle in my affairs. I did no harm."

"You _killed_ people," Sherlock said, grimly. "Five people. Just so you could get a better price for their flats." Elderly, single people, not fitting in. No family, no friends; the flat they'd been living in for years the one thing they held onto, the one thing that was 'home.' Cups without matching saucers. With no relatives to inherit, the flats would sell for cheap, to people like this. People like this man, only known as The Landlord. He was shaking his head now.

"What use did they have of them? They were old people, invalids! They were better off that way. Most of them would have died of natural causes soon anyway..." The Landlord shrugged.

Sherlock took a step closer, surprised to find himself shaking. " _I_ had something to live for."

"Ah, but you weren't really dead, were you?" The man waved to one of his thugs. "This is boring me; take care of them."

John felt oddly relieved to have something _this_ straightforward to deal with. As the man with the shaved head raised his gun, John jumped to tackle him.

A surge of pure adrenaline flavored with something else hit Sherlock, seeing John move. He barely had time to shout a warning before a shot sounded, the window behind them shattering as the thug fell. Then - a screeching yell of anger - the man in the wheelchair shot forward, heading straight for John's legs.

As the thug fell to the floor, John reached for the gun; he noted that the thug had been shot through the head, which made it much easier to wrest the gun out of his hands.

Swinging around, Sherlock grabbed the wheelchair, pushing it, man and all, towards the goon with a ponytail; the third was reaching for his gun, Sherlock noted, but there Sherlock would never reach him in time. He glanced towards the window, then remembered, resisting the urge to smile. _Ah, yes. John._.

John fired for the shoulder of the third thug. It was not a familiar gun, and he was in a rather bad position - sprawled over the head of the now-deceased man - but it was very short range, and his shot was true. The thug fell with a yell - just as another shot shattered another window. Sherlock dove for the gun. John rolled towards the wall that held the shattered windows to get out of the line of sight of the outside shooter. The enemy of an enemy was not always a friend, or even a cordial acquaintance.

In an instant, Sherlock had the gun trailed on the wheelchair, if not the man in it; he quickly adjusted his aim. Secure. He did not have to glance around; he _knew_. "Clear! We're clear," he yelled, pulse racing deliciously. He _lived_ for this rush. The rush, and the knowledge the case was solved, by _him_. He stumbled back, straightening the gun, listening to the sound of running feet (and one pair walking, with a cane - no, umbrella). When the police entered followed by Mycroft, unconcernedly brushing snow off his lapels, Sherlock had almost managed to breathe normally again.

John clambered to his feet. Now that the action had settled down, he had time to be thoroughly bemused about the situation. Sherlock alive? Some strange old man killing tenants? Mycroft?

Mycroft surveyed scene with mild curiosity. Sherlock glared at him, annoyed by the fact that he could only guess what his brother was thinking. Well, one aspect was ever-present - mild disapproval of Sherlock. "You _do_ like to leave things to the last minute, don't you," Mycroft purred. Was there is hidden affection in the crooked smile he gave? No matter. With Mycroft, everything had an agenda.

Sherlock handed the gun to a passing officer, carefully not looking at anyone in particular. "Mycroft. Punctual, as usual."

John needed to get out. The air was too close, the thoughts thudding in his head too aggressively. He sidled towards the door in the guise of getting out of the way of the police. Fortunately, none of them seemed to recognize him. He slipped the gun under his jacket, made his way out of the building, crossed over to 221B, made his way up to his room, and closed the door, grateful to finally have some quiet at hand.

* * *

Some vague, mumbled statements were enough to mollify the officers; these were not Lestrade's people. Mycroft did not have his own personal police force, but none of the men and women he brought were familiar to Sherlock - expected, but no less disturbing. His brother, however - Sherlock knew he would not be so easily dismissed. Sherlock was not really in the mood for a chat, but as always, there was no need for words between them.

 _Rather silly of you,_ said the twitch of Mycroft's lips, not unfriendly.

Sherlock shrugged, the curve of his shoulder denoting _I don't want to talk about this_.

Mycroft smiled fully, the tilt of his head asking _don't you know better, really?_

When Sherlock turned abruptly, walking away, his back spoke volumes.

* * *

It was no good, John thought, angrily. Too many thoughts in his head, colliding, gelling with the last bits of souring adrenaline still flowing through his system. He pulled off his jacket, tossed it on the bed, and flopped atop it, rubbing eyes and mumbling _fuck_ to himself.

This completely failed to clear his head, and something was very hard and uncomfortable at his back. Oh, of course - it was the semiautomatic he had taken from the shaven-headed goon, the one whose blood - and a bit of brain, it seemed - was soaking into his trousers. He pulled the gun out, looking at it absent-mindedly. It was filthy and uncared-for, and for some reason, that bothered him greatly.

John hauled himself out of bed and walked to his desk. He removed the magazine, ejected the chambered rounds, and pulled out his gun-cleaning kit.

The motions were easy, natural - almost instinctive. His hands were at one with their labor, and the soothing rhythm gave his brain a chance to slow down, to stop spinning.

Sherlock was disgusted, Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was alive. It had been some kind of trap, and John had been run around to serve unwittingly in the middle of it.

His brain was still rattled from the adrenaline of what had just taken place. From the misery that arose from the horrified look on Sherlock's face when he had left the night before. From the frightening dead place that had grown in his viscera when he thought Sherlock dead. From the massive relief he felt when he saw that Sherlock was indeed alive. Yes, there was now absolutely no question that he _did_ love the man - and no question that the man was horribly offended by the very idea.

John paused, brush in hand, and cocked his head. He thought he had heard - no, it must have been Mrs. Hudson on the stairs below.

* * *

It was an ordinary door, all things considered. Easily broken down, like any of the doors in the flat - Sherlock had made sure of that before moving in. He knew he had not been heard mounting the stairs; they were well cared for despite their appearance, and Sherlock had spent a lot of time walking up to people without being noticed. And here, then, was the door. Sherlock pressed his head against it, closing his eyes.

For a moment he just stood there, not making a sound, running one hand over the darkened wood. Noises that were unmistakably _John_ filtered through. Sherlock bit his lip until he placed them - metal against metal, clever hands working. The gun, yes. He smiled, a little, exhaling quietly; he had been holding his breath. Odd, that. The door was smooth and solid and _there_. Sherlock ran his hands over it a few times more before pushing himself a little bit away.

Exhale, again. He had time to think now, and his head sagged with the burden of it. What John had given him. What Sherlock had forced him - would force him - to take away.

He could not quite muster the energy to walk away entirely.

* * *

John glanced up again, frowning at the door. He had definitely heard something outside. He put down his brush and walked to the door. But he paused before opening it - Sherlock might be outside. And the very last thing he was prepared to deal with was Sherlock.

John shook his head. If the flat were on fire, he'd surely hear from Mrs. Hudson. Otherwise, he'd rather stay in his room, alone with his thoughts. That was plenty of company. He returned to his desk - and his cleaning - with renewed vigor.

Eventually, the sound of the shower indicated that Sherlock was indeed back, increasing John's resolve to stay in his room. He finished cleaning and reassembling the thug's gun, and, for lack of anything else to do with it, dropped it in the drawer next to his own. He vaguely wondered what in Christ he would do with two of them. He had a brief and amusing visual of running into some situation shooting a gun in each hand like a video game action man - no chance of aiming at anything, generally making a mess, and he had to smile at the idea.

His body was telling him that a shower at this point would be brilliant, but he still could not face Sherlock. He shed his messy trousers, then sat back in bed with a book. He wasn't sure if it was even right-side-up; neither direction seemed to make any sense. He dropped the open book on his face with a sigh.

* * *

Sherlock let himself relax, finally feeling the full force of sleepless nights spent outdoors; the stakeout, the gunfight; what came after...

He snapped to with a jolt of adrenaline; he had nearly fallen asleep in the stream of tepid water. Relaxing, yes, but he was there to get clean. Basic needs; hygiene, sleep, possibly food. One thing at a time. What ever attempt he made at cleaning himself was half-hearted, however, and by the time he stumbled out, he more zombie than human.

The shower door closed behind him - more or less - there was no energy left in him to give a proper slam, and so it remained slightly open. No matter; John would be using the bath soon enough. Sherlock paid it no heed, heading, instead, directly to his bedroom, where he collapsed on the bed. Wet and naked, dripping slightly, there was no real comfort to be had, but his brain was screaming for sleep, and knowing from experience that it had to take whatever it could get, promptly shut down.

The last conscious thought in Sherlock's mind was not words or sights or anything concrete; just a feeling, a mood, lingering even when he woke, hours later.

 _Miserable_.

* * *

John heard the water shut off, and listened hard for the noise of Sherlock's door shutting. He desperately needed a shower.

He waited, listening to the deafening silence, until he couldn't wait any more. He peeked out cautiously; as it seemed that Sherlock was indeed in his room, John grabbed a fresh set of clothes and hopped into the shower.

The hot stream of water relaxed John, perhaps a little too much; water from his eyes found its way into the stream of water flowing down the drain.

He emerged from the shower with the need for a long walk. He always thought better with a little physical activity, and this was no exception. The pounding of feet on the pavement, and the view of London, lit magnificently after dark, relaxed him, and allowed his thoughts to flow freely. Flow they did, and when he returned, later that evening, he knew what he had to do.

* * *

Morning.

Yes, definitely morning, or some such. Sherlock's brain could perfectly accurately deduce the time of day, but his body was another matter; screaming and yelling all sorts of inconvenient things at him, like 'food' and 'rest' and... well, there was another part of that equation that it would simply have to learn to do without.

Sherlock got up, and for want of anything better to do, took another shower.

Feeling no better afterwards, he stared at himself in the mirror. Pale, gaunt and hollow-looking at the best of times - he knew people found him attractive, but people found a great many things attractive - now, the sharp angles of his face merely served to underline that sinking, empty feeling in his chest.

Granted, he told his mirror image, that could be hunger. Did they - _he_ \- have any food? The idea was too complicated to contemplate right now; with resignation, Sherlock dragged himself back to bed.

Hours later, he woke with a start, the thought of food igniting something fierce and primal in him. _Now_ , his body seemed to tell him, _no time to argue_. There was no time for the usual care Sherlock liked to taken in dressing, but the importance of clothes had faded, in his mind. His socks ended up mismatched (two clearly different shades of charcoal). He did not bother with shoes, stumbling into the kitchen, looking through fridge and cupboards like ancient man foraging.

There was hardly anything to find, but Sherlock ravenously threw himself at what there was, and when the worst was over and he sat there, fingers smeared with foodstuffs, lips and tongue numb with the frenzy of activity; only then did the full reality of the situation hit him.

No John.

At the clinic, of course, physically, right now. But that was not the issue, and as Sherlock slowly shuffled back to his room, sitting down at the edge of the bed, one thing was completely clear: it was _he_ who was lost.


	4. Chapter 4

John returned to the flat. It was often quiet, when Sherlock was not in a frenzy of activity, but the quiet seemed to be of a different character - a sinister quiet, a tangible one. An open jar of jam sat on the table, clearly out of place amongst the papers, boxes, and dusty skulls. John picked it up, frowning. What kind of a strange clue to Sherlock's state of mind was this supposed to be?

The door to Sherlock's room was open slightly. John steeled himself and peeked in, resting his head against the doorframe. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging down. He seemed almost not to notice John at first. When he did look up, the sight was startling. Sherlock's normally pale face was even paler; his eyes were bleary, with dark rings beneath.

It was clearly past the time that John should come clean. "Look - I'm sorry."

Sherlock frowned, straightening a little. What was John waiting for - that couldn't possibly be the end of the statement.

John closed his eyes. He thought he had planned decently well for this conversation, but it was one of those conversations that laughed evilly at any attempt to plan for it. He took a deep breath. "I can't change myself."

"Why would you possibly want to?" Speaking felt rather like scrubbing his throat with a loofa. Not very pleasant, and generally unnecessary.

Having his eyes closed actually helped, John decided. He could pretend he was speaking to air. "I don't want to make you unhappy or uncomfortable. That... pretty much means I can't stay."

Sherlock looked away, closing his eyes. "I can't say I wasn't expecting that." It came out flatly, though with something of a hitch. Not unexpected. Expected, in other words. Yes.

John nodded, opening his eyes. "It's probably a relief for you."

 _Relief?_ Possibly. After all, this was the inevitable end, merely coming a little sooner than expected. Enduring the waiting for months, constantly wondering - _that_ would have been torture. Relief then, perhaps. Sherlock found he simply could not reply; he could do little else but press his eyes and mouth shut, shivering.

John tuned away. He walked to his chair and sat, feeling like he was twice his weight. Good god, he thought, Sherlock can't even _look_ at me anymore. Well, what did he expect. He knew it would be... bad.

Sherlock felt nearly paralyzed with what he could not place. It was unwelcome; terrifying - he was afraid. Much more than from the sex, from John's words in the flat, from anything ever before. There was a hole in his chest, and the world seemed to be falling into it, sucked into the void it felt like. And so, Sherlock collapsed into himself, wondering at the way his body shook and at the odd sounds escaping him.

John heard something he wasn't quite sure he could believe. He hauled himself to his feet and walked to the door. "Sherlock - what's wrong," he sighed. The sight of the man - wait, was he _crying_? John didn't think the man had tears, much less any ability to shed them. Watching Sherlock cry was like watching birds flying through tarmac, or fish serving coffee. Granted, the picture before John would not seem dramatic if it were anyone else; Sherlock was merely slumped on the edge of the bed, the slight movement of his shoulders indicating irregular breathing - was it sobs? Surely not. "Sherlock.." John bit his lip. He was confused, massively confused. He loved Sherlock. This disgusted Sherlock. Leaving should delight the man. What was wrong?

Control, once lost, was too far away to regain so quickly, but Sherlock owed it to John to try. Summoning his deepest reserves, he managed to look straight at him. "You're right," he said, in a vague semblance of his regular voice, wincing internally at the sound of it, "I can't be human."

John frowned. "What's going on?"

"How pathetic," Sherlock spat the word, "do you have to be to be unable to handle the fact that someone loves you."

John shoved his hands into his pockets. "It happens. You love someone, they don't love you back, it's nothing but awkwardness. But it happens all the time. The modern pop song industry would collapse without unrequited love."

"Yes, well, the thing about those millions of fictional people, John, is that they were able to relate to the concept of being loved without having a panic attack." Sherlock clutched the bed frame, as if its solidity could somehow be transferred. This was not _like_ him, he did not _feel_ ; he _thought_ and _knew_.

John stepped back slightly. This was all wrong, terribly wrong. "Look, nothing's going to happen, all right? I'm not going to touch you, violate your personal space, annyothat..." he trailed off, looking everywhere but at Sherlock. What must the man _think_ of him, to react like this...

"No, I've made sure of that, haven't I?" Sherlock tried to laugh; even at that, he now failed, the sound jarring oddly. "It figures. The Great Sherlock Holmes found the one thing that would make John Watson leave him. And for my next trick, I will shoot myself in the foot!"

John crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "Sherlock, isn't this what you _want_?"

Anger filled Sherlock, fuelled him, giving him the energy, once more, for a taste of control. "I've been offered a knighthood, the crown jewels of a small African nation, a Central American country and someone's actual daughter, but none of it ever interested me." It never had. Why should it? He had his work, and none of those things could possibly aid that. But now... He looked at John, intently. "If I could give them in trade to make you stay, I would."

This was... all backwards, upside down; it made no sense. Even less sense than Sherlock normally made. John covered his face with his hand. "I don't understand."

"I'm not sure I could ever say it, but..." The concept, the very idea was beyond him. That did not, however, make it any less true. Sherlock struggled, searching for the words to convey it. "I do." A pathetic attempt. It seemed the order of the day.

John looked up. A structure was forming in his mind, one that made sense of the situation. It was also far too good to actually be true, however. "You... do." John jerked his head in the direction of the flat where he had made his unfortunate declaration. "That thing."

Sherlock swallowed, looking up. That simple. That... grotesquely stupid. "I do."

John exhaled a shuddering sigh. It was definitely too good to be true. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried again. "So the other night."

Sherlock offered him a faltering smile. "Panic." He looked away. The timing had been terrible, but would it ever have been right? The problem, Sherlock knew, was not about the when, but the who, and what that who was capable of. Or not. "Like I said, pathetic. Any sane person would leave; I don't blame you."

John scratched his head. He had never been accused of sanity, certainly. "To err is human..." he offered, stepping inside of the room as if in demonstration.

Bold statements, the entrance doubly so. Sherlock merely observed, not willing to commit to a conclusion just yet. Several came to mind, but he wanted only one of them. Dismiss the impossible, and what remained, however improbable, would be the truth. This though, this _was_ impossible. Wasn't it?

John tentatively sat next to Sherlock. This freedom was intoxicating. Being this close to Sherlock was equally intoxicating. Then Sherlock's hand reached out for his, as though to assure itself John was really there. John took it, squeezing.

"I'm so hungry I must be hallucinating," Sherlock mumbled. This warmth was no hallucination, though, nor the firm grip of John's hand. Not the strongly beating pulse in John's wrist. Impossible, or merely improbable? Either way, Sherlock _needed_ it.

Of course. Sherlock must have not eaten since the beginning of the case. "We need food." He kissed Sherlock's hand, because it was there, and eminently kissable.

With access granted to John's face, Sherlock ran his fingers across it, feeling John pull in a deep sigh. Reactions. Like rare chemicals interacting. When Sherlock lay his hand flat across John's cheek, John pressed against it, moving, turning the static hold into a caress. Sherlock closed his eyes. "Definitely hallucinating."

John dropped Sherlock's hand. He needed more - more certainty, more contact, more Sherlock. He took the other man's head in his hands, kissing him on the lips.

Sherlock moved his lips softly, shivering. He needed this; needed to stop thinking, stop _controlling_ and let someone else take over, just for a while. For a short while. John could do that. John could make him forget himself.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close, rubbing his back and hair. Sherlock was alive, Sherlock loved him, and John could not have enough confirmation of these facts. He kissed Sherlock almost desperately.

Sherlock followed eagerly; whimpering now, still shivering. He could and would not relent; following John's every movement, fearing the loss of contact.

John finally, regretfully, broke away. "I need to get you fed; jam isn't dinner."

Hunger and an entirely different sort of need had blended together in Sherlock's mind, to the point where he could no longer adequately tell the two apart. "Please," he mumbled, not entirely sure what he was asking for.

"I'll order out. Give me a moment. You're not a maiden, I don't want you to swoon in my arms." With a weak smile, Sherlock collapsed back onto the bed, and John paused to look at him for a moment. He looked like Adonis, yes, but an underfed Adonis in need of a rest. John tore himself away to call up some curry.

* * *

After making the order and tossing the phone aside, John stepped back into the doorway - but stopped there. Sherlock lay on the bed, as pale as wax, his face haggard even in repose. John couldn't bring himself to walk in and disturb Sherlock's rest.

The emotional rollercoaster that the last few days had run him on was sweeping up another massive hill. Sherlock loved him? John didn't want to even hope that was true. But he could not help it; the thought of lying with this man, holding him close, brought a completely idiotic thrill. If there were a plunge from these dizzying heights, it would be a pisser.

But he could at least do right by Sherlock, and let him doze until food arrived. John turned to look at the jar of jam on the table, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Had Sherlock eaten right out of the jar? The stained fork beside the jar certainly hinted at that.

John closed the jar and tossed it in the refrigerator, ignoring the disembodied finger in the crisper. He _hated_ jam.

* * *

John sat in his chair and waited, tapping his fingers idly. The food arrived after an eternity that was probably not much more than fifteen minutes. He carried the boxes into the bedroom. Sherlock was not yet awake, and John hesitated. Which was more pressing, food or rest? Soon enough, however, the lean form on the bed stirred, contorting itself to sit up, stretching. John sat on the bed, opening the two containers and handing Sherlock a plastic fork. "Eat."

The smell and sight of warm, fragrant food bypassed Sherlock's rational mind, appealing straight to his instincts. He grabbed the fork and the nearest foil-lined container, eating ravenously, and with very little finesse. Chunks of meat, sauce and vegetables caressed his tongue, the spices tingling his palate, warming as much as the dish itself and piping hot rice. He felt himself returning to himself, bit by bit, as the food was consumed, heat pooling, he was half-aware, in his groin as he ate.

John ate sparingly; _he_ hadn't starved himself for days, after all. It was far more exciting, anyway, to see Sherlock indulge himself, as used as John was to seeing the man deny his body. When Sherlock was done with his portion, John offered him his own.

Sherlock accepted it eagerly, eating more slowly now, relishing the flavors and the sheer pleasure of food, which normally escaped him. But now, next to John, both sated and ignited, he relished every bite, licking his fingers when it was all gone, still hungry for more.

John had to smile. It was practically sensual, seeing Sherlock's naked joy at eating.

More. Yes. There was a garish orange smear of stray sauce on the side of John's mouth. Sherlock put the cartons on the floor, leaning over John and licking it away, still fuelled by the hunger, underlined by something more, now. He felt and heard John gasping and grabbing his sides - that felt good; it grounded Sherlock as he licked John's lips, draining any trace of spice and cream from them and then licking still, pressing closer to get at it - them - all of it. All of John.

This sexual aggressiveness on Sherlock's part was unexpected, unprecedented. It excited John beyond all reason, and he grabbed Sherlock tighter, kissing the man deeply, tasting the curry in his mouth, pushing Sherlock backwards onto the bed. Sherlock moaned open-mouthed; pulling John closer still and pushing up against him. John started to pull at Sherlock's clothing. Naked, yes, naked would be the right thing, and more of this wet messy perfect dance of lips and tongue.

Yes; clothes should come off. Sherlock tried his best to help undress himself - at any rate, he pulled at garments somewhat in tandem with John. It worked, if slowly; skin emerged, cooling in the chill air of the flat, exposed.

Sherlock's torso was irresistible; pale, lean, delectable. John fell across it, kissing that arch of neck, licking the nipples, hard and warm on his tongue. Sherlock gasped arching up to meet him, his hands running down to John's hips. John bit at one ruddy nipple - harder than he had planned, in his eagerness - as he pulled Sherlock's trousers and underpants down. Sherlock's every exhale was a whimper; precome had wet the front of his underpants to the point where a dark stain was showing. John yanked them down, freeing the erection to spring up eagerly. He took that cock into his mouth like a starving man. Yes, this is what he had been craving, more than food - hell, more than oxygen. He needed this, needed Sherlock.

Gasping, Sherlock’s hips twitched, his back arching. He lost his grip on John; he had lost his grip on quite a lot of things, and that was all right. He wanted more of it; give himself up to John's control completely. He could still feel the sweet sting of teeth on his nipples; such a lovely burn. More of that, there. More of that everywhere.

It was good, but it wasn't enough. John snaked his hands around to grab Sherlock's buttocks, pulling upwards to bring the man's cock more deeply into his mouth. Yes, _yes_ \- this was filling.

A little beyond words right now, Sherlock muttered nonsensical syllables. There was a John or two in there though; always that, and John's shoulders in his grasp, John's fingers, exploring him. As they held his buttocks firmly, splaying out and probing a little between them, Sherlock's eyes went wide. _Yes, that, yes, now!_. He tried to wiggle to encourage them, get them closer, inside, pushing, probing - _yes, this, yes!_

John could feel encouragement when it was offered, and go with it. He slipped a finger inside, sucking deeply.

"Oh!" More of a breath than an exclamation escaped Sherlock; it ended in a deeper moan as he squeezed John's shoulders. _More. Harder. Now._.

John pushed harder, experimentally. If it pleased Sherlock, then at the moment, it had to happen, no questions. Sherlock kept pushing back, panting open-mouthed, so John slipped in another finger. This was exciting, and was giving him ideas he probably shouldn't be having. He distracted himself by swallowing as much of Sherlock's cock as he could, practically choking on it.

Pleasure hit Sherlock, abruptly, startling; nearly knocking him out. He arched off the bed, mind blissfully empty of thoughts, feeling and sensation taking their place. The orgasm pulsed through him as he came off in John's mouth, spilling himself, being drawn in as he was drawn out.

Even the bitter taste of Sherlock's come was somehow exciting, in this context, and John swallowed it eagerly, licking the cock clean. Sherlock was gasping deeply, even whining a little as he slowly wound down, until he was finally just breathing, face seeming focused only on that one task. Feeling that he had nothing more to contribute, John pulled back, panting. He needed... he needed something, he wasn't sure what, but in the meantime, the blissful, wide-eyed expression on Sherlock's face would do nicely. He leaned for another kiss.

 _More. Yes._ Even more. Sherlock took a beat to recover, before kissing back with utter devotion. John was tight and warm and close, but there was too much covering him up; Sherlock pushed at it, at the shirt and trousers, the latter’s tight, but not tight enough - he needed _skin_.

John helped to remove his own clothing; yes, he needed more, more flesh on flesh, and as soon as possible. As soon, it seemed, as he was able, Sherlock grabbed John's erection, just sort of holding on to it, like it was a rare commodity. John gasped, bucking into Sherlock's hand.

This was close. This was good. Not close enough, but getting there. Sherlock pulled at John, stroking his firm, solid cock, licking the side of his face and up to his ear. He liked John's ears, liked all of him, in fact, but they were a pleasing shape, yielding to the pressure of Sherlock's tongue. Not yet though; as yet there was John's cheek to explore; soft, yet firm, grazed with stubble.

The tongue on his cheek did something very deep and primal to John, and he shivered, hard.

Now, the ear. John liked his voice, Sherlock knew that, and he wanted John undone, wanted that more than anything. He breathed into it, settling close, his nose nudging against it. "I dream about you fucking me," he said, softly, lips nearly touching skin.

Words, just words. Words should not have this effect on him - they should not make him choke, make him even harder than he was, even if they were delivered in such a dark, sultry voice, and so perfectly echoed something he hadn't quite realized he wanted to do so much. Sherlock was still moaning into his ear and stroking him slowly. "No lube," John choked. Oh, he wanted that more than air, but not enough to hurt Sherlock over it.

Trivialities. Unimportant. But Sherlock could sense John's reluctance; knew he would not yield to demands or whiny pleading. That was good. God, was that _good_ , but then, the thought of it... "Later. _Please_." Sherlock ached, just at the thought of it.

It wouldn't be enough, John knew, but there was simply no way to resist, and so he wet two fingers in his mouth, pressing them inside of Sherlock. Oh, god, he almost came just doing that - so warm, so tight, so wanton to want this...

Sherlock nearly cried out at the feel of John's fingers back inside of him (where they _belong_ , a dark voice whispered); this was good, he could get by on this. John's fingers, probing him, stretching him... Sherlock stroked John's cock more urgently, feeling another finger slip in. That was... _too much_ was not the word - he had no words - but his mouth tried to form them anyway, gaping as he gasped for breath.

The longer he did this, the better it would be for Sherlock, but there was only so long he could wait; John withdrew his fingers, working up a mouthful of saliva. Sherlock was whimpering and stroking him fast, sucking at his neck. John tried to cover his cock with saliva; it would have to do...

A thrill of shocked anticipation hit Sherlock at the sight; _that_ could mean only one thing, and Sherlock needed it like he needed oxygen; all the more for thinking it would be denied him. He shuddered, pushing back against John. "Oh... please..."

John started to press inside, gingerly. He would have to stop, if this hurt too much, and Sherlock was a virgin in this way and he really shouldn't be initiated like this, but... Then Sherlock threw his head back, forcing sounds of pleasure out through gritted teeth. The sight was ridiculously exciting; John carefully slid in farther, telling himself, like a mantra, _slowly, slowly, slowly_.

 _Pain._ Sherlock cried out, his eyes widening with the shock of it. Such pain! Quite nearly pleasure, really, and how it made him feel - so close to John, so _owned_ by him, so under his control. He would have come, had he not been spent already.

John let a little more saliva fall; it would have to do. He started to move in and out - so tight, so perfect, so - hell, he was not going to last. Sherlock grabbed his sides, clinging to him, trying to lock eyes. His own were wide open, shining. Reason and sanity were flitting away, borne on the wings of sex and tight and sensation and Sherlock and _yes, god yes_. John started to pound hard and fast, giving in to sensation.

Sherlock was lost, utterly, lost to everything, lost to _John_ , and the pain, the searing, caressing pain, and the fullness, and pleasure like a dull ache in the background. His mouth opened and his eyes fluttered closed; Sherlock tried to open them again, needing to _see_ this, but his head fell back in a wanton moan. His own body was no longer his to control. He was John's plaything.

The sight completely undid John - Sherlock so aroused, so clearly _wanting_ what John so much wanted himself; he groaned _fuck yes_ , pounding harder - surely he would drive them both through the mattress - bracing himself with his hands on either side of Sherlock, feeling sweat run down his face. Sherlock cried out, moving with him at first, if erratically, and then, slowly, giving in entirely, just lying back to let himself be moved. Orgasm took John hard - harder than usual; his head went light, he was dashed on rocks by waves of pleasure, it was so good it almost hurt. "God... yes... yes!" Was that someone else yelling, far away, with his voice?

A little dizzy from the pain and intensity, Sherlock could only whimper. He was splayed across the bed, hips moving to meet John's thrusts again and again. His eyes were closed, opening them was too strenuous a task to contemplate, and anyway, who needed eyes when there was all this sensation; pleasure bleeding into pain and leaving him numb and weak and blissed out.

John shivered as the spasms of orgasm petered out, leaving him weak and drained. His head fell forward, and he gasped for breath. Beneath him, Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, studying him. John pulled out, choking as his head caught on the way out. He moaned an expletive at the sharp sting of sensation. Sherlock yelped in kind and bit his lip before meeting John's eyes again. Oh, hell, they shouldn't have done this without lube... "You... all right?" John panted.

Words. They could mean anything. Sherlock found he was smiling anyway; his face would not fall into any other expression. Not that he minded; he was perfectly content to lie here, looking up at John and relishing in their mutual existence. He nodded. That, at least, seemed possible.

That would do, for now. John couldn't think about it anymore - he couldn't think about anything anymore. He collapsed next to Sherlock. He wanted to say, "I love you," as it's the proper thing to say to someone you love after sex, but he shouldn't say it to Sherlock... he settled for just mumbling it inaudibly. If Sherlock heard it, he gave no notice, turning on his side to throw an arm around John; cringing a little. John pulled Sherlock tight. Something was nagging at his spent brain - oh, yes. They had more room; he was not teetering near the edge of the bed while lying next to Sherlock. "New bed," he mumbled.

The pain was fading to a dull sort of memory in Sherlock's mind, leaving contentedness in its wake. He was, however, starting to think rationally again. Though not _quite_ , yet. "Yes."

"Good fit." John fumbled for the blanket, which had been kicked most of the way onto the floor, and pulled it up over the two of them.

"You have no idea," Sherlock mumbled. They did fit, the two of them. How extraordinary. Something to consider and contemplate further. Well, there would be time. Presumably.

"Mm?" John had no idea what Sherlock had just said. He had very little idea about anything. All he knew was warmth, and Sherlock close, and love, and sexual satiety, and the darkness of a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock kissed John's cheek and lay back, his head feeling heavier now, with his full faculties slowly returning. So, it would be the two of them now, for a while. A long while, even. Quite possibly. Something new, this; a relationship. They did not work, not in Sherlock's experience, but then again, it was true that he did not have _personal_ experience. He would now, of course.

All things were transient. Interests waned, hobbies grew boring; what once seemed new and exciting so often - inevitably - grew lacklustre with familiarity, which, of course, always bred contempt. People were limited by their lifespans, the last few decades of which were hardly productive; bodies grew frail, and even the mind would fail, eventually. Even Sherlock's mind, though he had long ago made provisions against having to endure _that_.

Sherlock turned, pressing his face against John's warm, still-flushed skin. Layers of epidermal tissue stretched over bone and muscle; all so very perishable. Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing it, feeling John shift in his sleep. All things were transient. It had never really bothered him, before.

The bed was, as had been pointed out, just big enough for the both of them, and comfortably so. And thus the hours passed with John's gentle snores, Sherlock's arm winding carefully around him.

And then, eventually, came morning.


End file.
